Textling #81

Former self was dawn’s creature, bickered with the birds and figured minutes might be hours might be days. Nor did she count. Books in bed, predating; once upon a time we wolfed them down, nary a nibble now. Brain is trussed with ticker tape, its constant crackle wearies. We read, we try, and pages petrify – headstones where doors swung wide.

When we’re the slightest bit awake we ache with hunger, lust for learning, visit sentences we loved, were bruised by, hoping they’ll return us to abandoned worlds. Marks in pencil, thumbnail scratches, coloured tails to pull a kite down. We meet “ein rotes Wort coming the other way.” * We wait, fangs filed.

It’s a bookling!

Michell’s textlings are carefully crafted and tightly focused chronicles. Piercing and full of gusto, at times savagely funny, they give glimpses of a life (and many others) bent out of shape by a debilitating and little understood disease. Most importantly though, language is turned into adventure. Minute-work when energy allows - Michell's prose is lucid, luminous, and entertains, enthralls. Published by Palewell Press. Search for: